Harvest

In winter,

when the sun is a dandelion

seeded with ice,

all I can give you of summer

is this fading red, yellow, orange

the fall tree released.

If I offer you

this harvest of light

gleaned from long days

with firefly twilights,

will you lift your hands

 into the sky,

two birds singing

songs of praise?

© Jean Sampson, 2011

Fallen leaves; photo by Tony Russell

I Am From: Second Thoughts

I am from the center of my mother’s world

from joy and compassion and uncertainty

from love nickels placed in the palm of my hands by my Nana

from Admiral St. and Orchard St. and Dickerman St.

I am from hot bread and starched dresses lovingly created by Nana

from patent leather shoes, white gloves, and 35 cent sundaes

from cheerleading and track and nursing school

into a family that blends this country with Nevis

I am from love and laughter and tears of joy

from silly laughter when it tickles my gut

from dancing and singing and tap and drums

from sweet potato pie and apple dumplings

I am from kitchen sink soup and cinnamon twists

from dancing school and girl scouts and weekend gatherings

from teaching and sharing and nurturing with joy

to blossoming into who I am

I am from the earth and the sky and the birds

from flights of ideas that race across the page

from song that flows from my pen to fill my soul

from you and us and we and they and all that is the universe

I am from the energy of love and joy and caring and compassion

from this world and the next and what is in between

from everywhere and nowhere and here and there

to bringing me love and caring to here and now

I am from almost not being here because it was almost taken

And so it is with gratitude that I come from what I am from!

© Hilda Ward, 2011

Sky and the flight of ideas; photo by Tony Russell

Cotillion

When the moon is full,

horseshoe crabs gather for mating

in the shallows of the inlet.

Huge primeval ones,

crusted with horny barnacles,

trailing ribbons of seaweed,

join with young ones half their size.

As the spring moon rises

over the salt marsh,

whispers of living creatures

murmur in the swaying reeds.

Though too dark for human eyes,

I picture a watery cotillion

where wise old warriors

pass on their ancient lineage.

Fewer come as years go by,

but still a remnant every spring,

at the full moon’s tide,

return to dance their watery drill.

© Peggy Latham, 2011

Photo: Horseshoe crab with barnacles, http://horseshoe-crabs.com/horseshoe-crab-pictures/

Chore, with Prayer

Immersed in the dirt

I water and weed

stretch and sweat

untangling the beans from

tomatoes and cucumbers

lost in the chore

of directing and caging

and guiding plants

with a prayer

that given enough

tender care

they will produce

juicy succulent 

vegetables

fresh and tasty

to nourish my body

as does this task 

of gardening

nourish my soul

              © 2011, Anne Cressin

Photo: Tomatoes, http://www.fullissue.com/index.php/tomatoes.html

Sleepers

A sleeper, they used to call it–

four passes with the giant round saw

and you had a crosstie, 7 inches by 9 of white oak–

at two hundred pounds nearly twice my weight

and ready to break finger or toe–

like coffin lids, those leftover slabs,

their new-sawn faces turning gold and brown

as my own in the hot Virginia sun,

drying toward the winter and the woodsaw

and on the day of that chore

I turned over a good, thick one

looking for the balance point

and roused a three-foot copperhead,

gold and brown like the wood,

disdaining the shoe it muscled across,

each rib distinct as a needle stitching leather,

heavy on my foot as a crosstie.

© David Black, 2011

Copperhead; photo by David Mathley

Can’t Help Being Happy

Can’t help being happy

on a morning like this --

Just taking a breath is bliss!

I know I didn’t get here on my own,

and I know we cannot make it all the way

alone --

December’s sun loosens frosted parts,

grass and branch and post make art --

Living vapor smokes into the light--

This ain’t nothing but right!

© Gerry Sackett, 2011

Frosted parts make art; photo by Tony Russell

Turtles at Sanibel

Nothing startled me awake tonight, no dream 

or other need.  

I simply opened my eyes. 

I could just make out the abandon of clothes 

in a bank on the floor, 

palm-held glasses on the bedside table, 

dark wine barely touched, 

the whirr of fan, a sound of surf just beyond 

the sliding screen door.

Lying here, I think of the beach 

as it is right now.

There is peace in the roll of water, 

the ruffle of sea grass in the wind,

a scattering of unbroken shells on the beach,

and the scuttle of hatchlings towards ebb tide 

finding haven on tiny rafts of algae 

that will carry them away 

like refugees clinging to the dark.    

© Susan Muse, 2011  

At the beach; photo by Tony Russell